


so he's a flirt, a complete egomaniac

by fangirl6202



Series: ain't it a fine life? [3]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Fluff, Humor, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I love my ocs ok?, Italian Racetrack Higgins, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Soft Spot Conlon, Spot Conlon is Bad at Feelings, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins-centric, hes a f l i r t, im taking a LOT of liberties with spot, race is so in love guys you have no idea, the first chapter is //really// angsty i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-20 17:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17626580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl6202/pseuds/fangirl6202
Summary: "He wasn’t worthy of love, from anyone. Not from his father, not from his mother, not from his newsboys, and ‘specially not from someone as beautiful and selfless as Racetrack. He never had. And never would.And he hated himself for it."-----Spot Conlon long ago stopped believing love, but after a newsie all the way from Manhattan makes himself a staple in Spot's lifeEverything changes





	so he's a flirt, a complete egomaniac

 Spot Conlon woke up to a rare occasion.   
  
Sunlight.   
  
Most boys were up before the sun came up, wanting to be first to hit the streets and usually Spot was right there with ‘em. A jolt of worry shot through him, almost jumping out of bed to hurry and buy his papes before remembering; today wasn’t a work day for Spot. He was one of the rare newsboys able to afford to not work whenever he wanted to. He rarely did it, but Sundays were his exceptions.  
  
Groaning, he winced as his eyes met the offending rays and he rolled onto his side to get out of it. The morning was unusually warm, Spot noticed, when he didn’t feel the usual brisk air hit him the second he got out of his bunk. Stretching his arms high above his head, his muscles screamed after hours of inactivity, _Spot_ screamed as his foot jammed into something on the floor. Cursing, he looked down and saw part of his possessions scattered over the floors. Sitting back down to nurse his foot, he wondered why the hell his stuff was on the floor. Spot was a very organized fella. He’d never just leave his stuff on the floor; his ma taught him better than that . She’d kneel over if she caught sight of his room now. Then it hit him;

  
  
Racetrack.

 

He cleared off his top bunk to let the boy sleep there.   
  
To say Spot’s week had been hectic would be an understatement. Catastrophe would be better suited. Queens was trying to push it’s luck with crossing into Brooklyn terf, something that riled up Spot more than he could say. And then One Eye had nearly gotten himself killed working on the docks. One Eye was one of the oldest newsies, older than Spot, and had everyone’s respect. They’s all knew One Eye would be leaving soon; selling papes was a boy’s job, and he was bordering 20. Now One Eye was recovering in the bunk room, unable to move his tore-up leg. Them being the first things on his mind, Spot had just had Soaker do her nightly report when Mouse, Bugs, and Hotfoot came in to announce they had found a ‘Hattan boy, one who wanted to talk to him.   
  
He was prepared to handle a lot of things: threats, terf wars, negotiations, even business contracts. But he wasn’t prepared for a boy, all the way from lower Manhattan, coming to him to ask about a selling spot he hadn’t bothered to use in years.   
  
What was even more surprising was that Spot had heard about this kid; 2nd in command to the infamous Jack Kelly, the quickest mouth that side of the Hudson, best poker player in all of New York. What surprised him was that someone like that had decided the situation was bad enough to risk his place in ‘Hattan to make the trip. He hadn’t even placed the blame on the kids,  just stated that they were abundant. That alone gave Spot a reason to respect him. Even his boys knew and were in awe of him. While he never had, many of his boys came back from parties and such in Manhattan grumblin’ ‘bout their lost money to a fiery ‘Hattan boy. But no one had told Spot what a _knockout_ Racetrack was.   
  
A wave of shame quickly engulfed him, but Spot squashed it down. He long ago came to accept that he fancied fellas. Gals were nice, nice to look at, nice to smile at, even nice to touch, but Spot knew he could never love one. Not the way he wished he could a man. Sometimes, when he selling, he’d let himself hope. Dream. The idea of marriage was there in his mind, but still, he imagined. Imagined that any passing gentlemen would give him a smile, would wink at him, would grab his hand and take them into an alley to sneak a kiss, the way his boys did with their sweethearts. But it was useless. Fairies didn’t get happy endings.   
  
A few gentlemen caught his eyes: The apprentice at the barbershop who always went out of his way to buy a pape from Spot and ask about his day always in a sweet Yiddish accnent, the young storekeeper who waved from the window with a smile and once let Spot stay at the counter when a storm caught him by surprise, the altar boy at the church that handed food out to his boys, and a few more. But no one had caught his eye as quickly as Racetrack had. Tall, but not towering; a bit skinny, but Spot could tell he was a runner if he had made the trek from 'Hattan so quick; his golden hair looked nearly glowing under the lamp light.   
  
And those eyes. So beautiful. They were as blue as the sky above.   
  
Sighing, he had to put the beautiful boy out of his mind. It wasn’t becoming of a king to swoon. Staring at the mess in front of him, his eyes landed on a small plush cat. It was one of the few remainders of a happy childhood, if his childhood could have ever been called happy. Well, it was. For a few short years, it was happy, and Gatito had been there to witness it. He had been a gift from his “governess” and, being the abundantly creative child he was, named him Gatio, meaning Kitty. Before Marie came along, his only friend was that small plush. Sighing, he leaned down to pick his kitty up. _“Al menos tú no me abandonaste”_

 

The cat didn’t respond. Obviously. Spot didn’t know what he expected, but he still found himself just the tiniest bit disappointed. He got up to place Gatito back in his place, and found something resting on the top bunk. It was yesterday’s pape wrapped around an object. That was odd. It was odd to find old newspapers, it meant someone wasted their money. Reaching out to pick it up, he saw it was an unsmoked cigar.  He wasn't a smoker, couldn't stand the habit if he was honest with himself, but this. This was a corona. These was expensive as hell, Spot knew. One of his newsies saved every spare penny for months just to buy their sweetheart one for Christmas. He knew who had left it. Now how a struggling newsie had been able to afford one, Spot wasn’t sure. He was about to throw the now useless pape to the ground before seeing large black letters on it. He realized it was a note. Carefully unfolding it, he saw the words. **_Thank you for everything Spot. I'll be back soon - Race._ ** ****  
  
Race. Race. Less of a mouthful than Racetrack. He quietly spoke the name aloud Somehow, it fit the boy even more. Spot carefully traced the note, studying Race's sprawling handwriting as he softly spoke his name out loud.

  
  
_Race. Race. Race. Race. Race. Ra--_

 

The sound of his door swinging open spooked him and he yelped as he dropped the cigar and pape. He whirled around and saw his 2nd in command leaning in the doorframe, cocky smirk on her lips.

 

“Land’s sake, Soaks!” Spot cursed, anger welling up in the pit of his stomach, Soaker was the only person in Brooklyn brave or looney enough to enter his room without knocking. “You’se can’t just barge in here!”

 

The look on her face didn’t change at all, her smirk growing a bit bigger. “Sorry Spot,” She said, not even bothering to feign sincerity. “I’ll do better next time.” He knew she wouldn’t but Spot grunted his acceptance, knowing it was a mute point with Soaker, and carefully picked up the pape and cigar. Soaker looked around, studying everything on the floor. Her eyes bulged out, having been in his room often enough to know he’d never have such a mess.

 

“In the name of the Lord, Spot!” Soaker exclaimed, looking at the mess on the floor, making Spot wince at His name being taken in vain. He was about to respond, but Spot looked up and saw Soaker was wearing trousers today and made the mental switch. Most days she was a girl, others he was a boy. It wasn’t often that he wore trousers and hide his hair under his cap, but it did happen on occasion. Soaker wasn't the only kid in Brooklyn like that, but Spot still had to remind himself. Despite all the rumours in New York, no one could ever say Spot Conlon didn't accept each and every one of his kids.  That was one of his rules. If you’se stayed in the Lodge, you’se accepted each and every newsie. It had made a ‘hull bunch of Brooklyn boys leave to other towns, but the Lodge was better off for it. Soaker was relieved and nearly cried when Spot first told him that he could wear trousers whenever he wanted to, as long as he didn’t look too much like a gal, less he wanted the bulls to get involved.

 

Suddenly, Soaker’s face turned snide, the smirk on the boy’s lips returning as quickly as it had disappeared.. “Which gal came over, eh?”

 

That was always a thing with Soaker, always wondering if and when Spot would get a sweetheart. No one else dared to ask or to rib him ‘bout it, but Soaks always had his fun. Jokin’ ‘bout gals Spot could pursure, always saying he’d made sure no one would come up to his room if he ever needed, though that comment would always be followed with a wink. _Oh if he only knew._ Feeling his cheeks flame up, Spot furrowed his brows angrily. “I could have your body in the Hudson in less than an hour,” Spot growled out, returning to his clean up task. Had it been anyone else, such blatant respect would have been dealt with.

 

“A’ight, Conlon, whatever you say.” Soaker said, rolling his eyes. After a week or so, he’d gotten used to Spot’s near empty threats. Well, empty for _him._ Spot had a fair ‘nuff amount of blood on his hands, something that Soaker had yet to witness. He naively hoped Soaker would never have to. “Seriously, Spot. What happened in here?”

 

Spot paused. He didn’t know why, but he found himself not wanting to tell Soaks anything. Wanting to keep Racetrack a treasure all to himself. But that wasn’t fair. He had been the one to send Soaker away, even though an agreement over Sheepshead would have been something a 2nd in command would want to know about it. If anyone should know before Spot made the announcement, it was Soaker.  “...it was too late to cross the bridge, so I… I cleaned off the top bunk and let Racetrack sleep here.”

 

Soaker laughed, just once, before falling silent. One look at Spot’s face told him he wasn’t lying, causing Soaks’ jaw to drop. “In _here?”_ He asked in disbelief, eyes nearly bulging out of his heads. Spot nodded, sitting back on his bunk. It wasn’t a secret that Spot valued his privacy. He didn’t have to share a room as a child, something that was rare amongst newsies, so he had never learned to be open with his belongings and space. He only gave access to his bedroom to his second and third in command or, in rare occurrences, to few newsies.  In the half year Soaks had been with Brooklyn, no one had ever actually _spent the night_ in Spot’s room. Even other borough leaders were lead to other unoccupied rooms. More often than not, anyone who wasn’t sent to the bunk room (which was rare) was left to fend for themselves on the streets. But something kept him from letting Race leave.

 

The person who saved Soaks deserved more than a cold, empty building in a foreign borough. Brooklyn was dangerous to anyone who didn’t know the streets, which were safe and which could kill a fella. He was a good kid, Spot was sure. “Yeahs, in here.”

 

“That’s never happened.” Soaker muttered, then noticed the bundle still in Spot’s hands. Soaker knew all of Spot’s stuff, even the little cat he tried to hide, but this was new. Spot was humble for being significantly wealthier than the rest of them, instead using his money to leave gifts for the newsies when they weren’t looking. New shoes “found” in a closet. A button for someone’s shirt. New medicine every week so their medical box would always be full.  He was Brooklyn’s own santa claus. Spot rarely bought himself anything. “Whatcha got there, Spot?” He asked said, walking over and studying the pape.

 

Spot hesitated slightly. It wasn’t anything, just a note and cigar really. But it felt...personal. “Don’t know really,” he relented. In front of everyone else, he was Spot Conlon, all mighty King of Brooklyn, but with Soaker...he was just a boy, a confused one at that. Deciding there was no harm, he handed it to Soaker. “It was on the top bunk today.”

 

Soaker took it and held the cigar aloft, gasping softly. “Racetrack… he gave this to you?”

 

He shrugged, eyeing Soaker carefully.. “Don’t know why. I ain’t a smoker.” Even if he was, he wouldn’t be able to smoke as it was. He was rarely in his room during the day, doing his work in the bunkroom surrounded by his newsies. A lot of ‘em couldn’t breathe in the smoke without coughing out a lung. Spot’s rule was that anyone hadta go outside for a smoke.

 

“You must have done something big,” Soaker muttered, not even looking at him and instead still gazing at the cigar. So Spot didn’t know. DIdn’t know just what these cigars truly were and what they meant. “Race wouldn’ give ‘em to just anyones...”

 

“Well, I’s gave him Sheeepshead,” Spot muttered.

 

Soak’s head snapped up. “What? Sheepshead?”

 

Spot nodded. Handing him the pape, Spot tapped on the writing and watched as Soaker read it. It had never happened before, really. Even he was still wrapping his head around it. “He came in saying Manhattan’s full to the brim, youngsters from the refuge on every corner. Didn’t want to send them to ‘nother burrough, which is what I would’a done. No, he asked if he could make the trek from ‘Hattan to sell at Sheepshead.”

 

“But why?” Soaker asked, moving so he could sit next to Spot on the bed. “Jack would let him take an empty spot, I know. Them’s two are closer than brothers. Why risk coming here? Why risk asking you knowing he could’a gotten soaked? And...why did you let him?”

 

That was the question that was plaguing his mind. “I don’t know.” He answered truthfully. “I guess… I guess I realized how desperate he must’a been. Don’t know many newsies who’d be willing to do the same. So I let him. Then I… I asked how he knew you.”

 

The air was thick with silence. Soaker knew what Spot was saying, that he knew Race was the one to save him. He had only told Spot what had happened after Spot realized he got nervous whenever the boys roughhoused with him. How he didn’t trust boys no more, how he was terrified of it happening again and no one being there to save him this time.

 

It chilled him to the bone. And Spot’s too.

 

Soaker just shook his head and handed it back. “A’ight Spot. I’m going to head down. The kids know I’m in charge today, and Imma put Jack-Rabbit as 2nd while you’re gone.”

 

Not knowing what else to do, Spot nodded. He knew Soaker wouldn’t talk if he didn’t want to. “A’ight, Soaks. I’ll be back before dark.” It was his usual promise, and one he always kept.  With that, Soaker left, the door shutting behind him. Left alone again with only his thoughts, Spot studied the note again.

 

Race. _Race. Race race race._

 

His hands were trembling and his stomach felt uneasy. In a sudden bout of rage, he threw the items on his desk and turned away. He was _Spot Conlon_ , king of Brooklyn. He didn’t get nervous or looney over one person. It was a _note._ Just a thank you. The thought that Racetrack could ever or _would_ ever see him in any romantic light was almost insulting. He wasn’t worthy of love, from anyone. Not from his father, not from his mother, not from his newsboys, and _‘specially_ not from someone as beautiful and selfless as Racetrack. He never had. And never would.

 

And he hated himself for it.

  
  
  
  


 

In Brooklyn, there was a building. A building full of laughter and tears, full of childhoods forming and being taken away. Full of poverty, happiness, death, love. On the top floor, in the highest room, there was a boy. A temperamental, traumatized, resilient, frightened, boy. Forged in fire, forced to grow up too quickly in a harsh, unforgiving world. A fighter.

 

In that room, the boy cried. Cried for the first time in years.

 

The boy wanted to stay in that room for hours, locked away from anyone and everyone. But he knew he could not, for he knew better. Knew that there were others who depended on him. Knew he had to be somewhere today. So he dried up his tears, welled up his emotions, pushed down his frustrations until they were safely tucked in the pit of stomach. They would come back, they always did, but the boy would worry later. He always did.

  
  


In the highest room of the Brooklyn Lodge, Sean Conlon got ready for church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Al menos tú no me abandonaste” - At least you didn't abandon me
> 
> \-----
> 
> Ok, I know I said I was done with the angst but....im sorry
> 
> Also, I personally don't headcannon Spot as hispanic or latino (though I will always appreciate those headcanns so much) but his knowledge of Spanish will be explained, I really just wanted one scene but for it to happen, Spot needed to know spanish
> 
> Comment your thoughts and suggestions! I love looking through comments!


End file.
